poem

Matthew Caley: COMMENDED Nag

Apparently, no horse is here,
no horse heir-apparent to this air. No horse of gut and withers,
   hind-legs
haltered to an ash, no eyes chrome-brown
with longing so unfathomable to man,
nay, no horse is here. No horse is hereby
evident by the hedgerow or the hawthorn-tree
shifting the world entirely with each shift of ham or hock.
Maybe given to Bedlam, tethered to bedrock, gone to glue
or gristle, whatever, here

-in stands no horse. Any Admiral or Emperor
cemented in the Square, whose head bears not a tri-corn but a
   traffic-cone, would bid adieu
to any such burdensome beast, any such scrofulous crock
with farcy on his leg, scree
inside his hoof, a coat of mange and flea,
left to blink under blinkered lanterns
that slowly illuminate Night Town,
wherein the diggers have dug, the laundress left. STREET
   CLOSED. Go beg
a bridle-path, a towpath or an arching orchard. No horse is
   here.